


Even the Stars Are Not Safe In Heaven

by elrhiarhodan



Category: Law & Order: SVU, White Collar
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Recovered Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Written prior to the airing of Checkmate)</p><p>In the two years following Elizabeth Burke’s kidnapping and her safe recovery, Peter has cut Neal out of his life, unwilling to forgive his part in Elizabeth’s trauma or the betrayal of their own partnership.  The story begins with Neal’s successful completion of his work-release, and he says goodbye to Peter.  It is a moment of finality.  But time passes, some wounds heal and tragedy brings them back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even the Stars Are Not Safe In Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> I have used the archive warning "rape/non-con" but all of the violence takes place off camera, there are no graphic depictions of violence or sexual assault.

“I guess this is goodbye.” Neal stood in his doorway, Janus in a vintage suit and trilby.

“Hmmm.” Peter supposed he should shake Neal’s hand, wish him well, but he didn’t. Truth was, he couldn’t wait for this moment. Once, he thought that the ending would come with a big party, congratulations and well-wishes from the FBI staff at all levels. Once, he thought that he’d miss Neal like an amputated limb. Or that his leaving would leave an unfillable hole in his heart.

That was a long time ago, before the darkest hours of his life. And if his heart was aching, the thought of Elizabeth still suffering created another, larger ache.

He suffered Neal’s presence for these last two years; appreciating his contributions, but almost (but not quite) hating the sight of him. 

A deal was a deal, though. Since he couldn’t prove Neal’s illegal activities, he had no legitimate reason to send him back to prison. And as Hughes insisted, Neal was too important an asset to transfer to another office. So Peter let Diana or Clinton manage Neal’s day-to-day activities, acted as if he didn’t exist when he didn’t have to interact with him, and it worked out well for all concerned. 

_Well, or well enough._

He opened a file, pretending that Neal wasn’t standing there.

“Take care of yourself, Peter.”

“You, too.” He looked up at last. This was it. It was over and done.

Neal lingered for a moment, his eyes searching. He seemed about to say something else but didn’t. He just turned and walked away. Peter tracked his progress downstairs, out the door and into the elevator. The office was quiet and he heard the doors slide shut, a quiet susurration of finality.

* * *

“That’s the last of it.” Peter all but dropped the final box on the living room floor. 

Three years ago, after watching El avoid her own home like it was a house of horrors, and maybe to her, it was, Peter had most of their stuff put it into storage and moved the two of them into a high security condominium in Hoboken, New Jersey. Their house, in the ever desirable Fort Greene neighborhood, was rented out to a French diplomat and his family. 

The place in Hoboken was more like a safe house than a home, but it was convenient to lower Manhattan and Elizabeth seemed to do okay there. She had needed a long time to recover from the kidnapping. They’d been through therapy, together and separately. He held her as she woke in the middle of the night; his heart broke from the pain and terror in her screams. His wife, once so fearless, so vital, had become a shadow of her former self. 

But over the last year, Peter could see that El was getting better, slowly but steadily. When their tenant’s posting was up, Peter wanted to discuss their options. There was no shortage of potential renters who could more than cover the mortgage and there were always offers to buy the place. On a Sunday morning in June, almost three years after the kidnapping, Peter sat down with her for a frank discussion.

Elizabeth bit her lip. “What do you want to do?”

“Do you want to sell it?” He took her hands in his; they felt like frail little birds. “We’ve had several offers.” Peter told her. “We could retire on the one that we just got.” The broker that had handled the rental was excited to tell them that someone was willing to pay $2.3 million for the house. “Whatever you want to do is fine with me, hon.”

El closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She pulled her hands free, clenching them into fists. “I want to move back there. I want to go … home.”

“El?”

“Peter – I am sick and tired of living like I’m under siege. I am sick and tired of being afraid all of the time. What happened, happened. I’m safe, you’re safe. It’s done. Let’s go home.”

He hugged her tight and hoped that this would be the turning point. 

And it was. They didn’t move everything back at first – just the basics. Peter held his breath, watching Elizabeth, waiting to see how she handled being back. To his surprise and utter delight, she blossomed, and if she wasn’t quite her old self again, well – neither was he. 

One of the happiest moments in recent memory was when El commanded him to get all their things out of storage. Today was the day that he retrieved the last of their personal belongings. Most of it had been packed by professional movers and it was almost like a scavenger hunt – finding pots and pans mixed in with linens and the occasional canned goods. This final carton was simply labeled “stuff,” as if the packers ran out of appropriately descriptive nouns.

Peter opened it and found, to his chagrin, that it really was just “stuff.” Mostly the contents of the kitchen junk drawer, plus a bunch of faded and stained towels that he had used for cleaning up after working in the yard. 

And a framed photograph.

His heart stopped. He could remember that day, that moment as if it just happened. Elizabeth grabbing her camera, telling them to pose like they were heading out to the prom. Nor could he forget Kramer’s concern that he was getting too close to Neal. 

Kramer had only partially been right. He had been already way more than too close.

Peter didn’t want to think about Neal and betrayals and all that he lost and nearly lost, it still hurt too damn much. So he did his best to compartmentalize his feelings and put away those dreams. But Neal had been popping up in his thoughts with increasing frequency of late. It had been easier to sustain the anger when Neal was still around; when he’d see Elizabeth staring at something – nothing, dread chasing the happiness from her without a word, and be able to blame Neal for her pain and unhappiness. 

Things were different now. He would run into a snag with some tedious fraud and look up, expecting Neal to be sitting across from him, a smile on his face and the solution on his lips. He found himself missing Neal in a million small ways, as if his last two years with the Bureau had never happened. And then he’d ruthlessly try to cut out those thoughts, to try to forget everything, the good and the bad. 

Peter sat on the floor, holding the picture, lost in memories, long enough for El to notice. 

“What have you got there?” She came over and he shoved the picture back into the box. But not fast enough. El grabbed it from him.

“Hon, no.” He reached for it, to throw it away, but short of tackling her to the floor, he couldn’t get the picture out of her hands.

El looked at the photo and smiled. “You two – you were both so handsome in your tuxedos – about to go out on a prom date. Although I could have done without the slicked-back hair.” She set the picture back in its former place of honor on the bookcase.

Peter took the frame and started to pry the picture out of it – he didn’t want it there, a constant reminder of everything they’d lost, all the pain they both suffered, but El grabbed it out of his hands. “What are you doing?”

“You really want this here – him staring at you?” _I don’t want to see us – together like that._

“Why not?”

“Why not? How can you ask that – if it wasn’t for Neal, you never would have been …” After so long, he still had trouble with the word.

“Kidnapped. And if it wasn’t for Neal, I’d be dead. Don’t ever forget that, Peter. Ever.”

He had nothing to say to that. It was the bare truth. Neal’s actions and inactions may have precipitated what happened to Elizabeth, but there was no denying that without Neal, Keller would have killed her.

She put the picture back where he had taken it from. “If you don’t want it there, I’ll find another place for it, but you’re not throwing it out.” 

El stood there, hands on her hips. A part of him wanted to applaud and cheer – he’d not seen this fighting spark in her for a long time. 

“You still haven’t forgiven him – after so long?” She asked, sadness clouding her tone.

“How could I, hon? How could you?”

“Maybe because he wasn’t really to blame and maybe it’s being back here, realizing that all my old ghosts are just that, ghosts. They can’t hurt me unless I let them.”

Peter hugged her to him. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For not being as wise as you, as loving.”

She rested her head against his shoulder. “I know he hurt you too – but it’s time to put the anger away. Can you? For my sake? More importantly – for yours.”

Peter nodded, pressing a kiss onto her forehead. He could do that. And if he told himself that he never wanted to see Neal again, well, it wouldn’t be the first time he told himself a lie, either.

* * *

“I’ll be home in a little while, hon. Just some things to finish up here.”

_“See you when you get here. Love you.”_

“Love you too.” Peter hung up and smiled. 

_Home_. 

That was a good word these days. It once again meant that bright and airy place in Brooklyn, with El and Satchmo and now a new golden retriever puppy, too. A six-month old bundle of energy that brought them so much joy, even as she peed and chewed on everything in reach. Peter got to name her, and the whole family loved and approved of Cleo. 

It was a little after five on a Friday evening in early December; if the traffic gods were smiling at him, he’d be home in time for all of them to take a walk before dinner and admire the holiday decorations in the neighborhood. 

“Boss?” Diana poked her head into his office.

From the look on her face, it seemed like his plans were about to be scuttled. “What’s up?”

“There are two detectives here to see you.”

“NYPD?”

“Yeah.”

“Did they say what they wanted?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve put them in the conference room.”

Peter leaned over and saw them through the connecting door. “Okay – thanks.” He couldn’t begin to imagine what the NYPD would want with him.

“Do you want me to go in there with you?”

He smiled. “Di – I think I can handle the cops.” Unlike many of his fellow agents, Peter didn’t have an instinctive contempt for the locals. They had a job to do, which was often more difficult and harrowing that his. He went into the conference room, more curious than concerned.

“Peter Burke, what can I do for you?” He held out his hand, first to the female detective, then the male.

“Detective Olivia Benson, my partner, Detective John Munch. Special Victims Unit.”

“Special Victims?” _Sex crimes._ The sudden rush of fear-induced adrenalin made him nauseous. It couldn’t be El, he’d just gotten off the phone with her and she was fine. “Who?”

“A John Doe was brought into the emergency room at Columbia Presbyterian around one am this morning. A wallet was found in a garbage can near the vic, the only thing left in it was a business card. Your card.” Detective Munch handed an evidence bag over to him.

It was his card, well worn, the edged frayed. From the faint hint of grime on the white card stock, it looked as if it had been taken out and put back many times. The raised lettering was worn too, like someone had rubbed it over and over.

“Who?” Peter didn’t want to ask. 

“We’re waiting for results from his fingerprints to ID him, but we were hoping you’d recognize him.” Benson reached into a file and pulled out a photograph.

“Do you know this person?”

The picture was of a man in his mid-to-late thirties, dark hair, bruises on his cheeks, cuts on his forehead and nose, more bruises around his mouth and throat. Peter closed his eyes and handed Benson back the photograph. He reached behind him and found a chair, sitting down before he collapsed. 

“Yes. His name is Neal Caffrey.” He breathed once, twice. “What happened to him?”

The detectives sat down too. Benson started to outline Neal’s injuries. “The victim – excuse me – Mr. Caffrey, was found unconscious and badly injured during a routine sector patrol. His clothing was disordered …”

“Disordered?” Was that his voice, so harsh?

Benson sighed. “His pants had been ripped down, his jacket and shirt torn.” She gave him a dispassionate look. “We’re still waiting for the results from the rape kit, but there was tearing and bleeding that indicate sexual trauma.”

 _No. Please god. No._ “Where was he found?”

“In a playground near Fort Tryon Park, by the Cloisters.”

“Neal loves the Cloisters.” That was the only thing he could think to say.

Munch asked, “Agent Burke, can you tell us how you know the vic. Excuse me, Neal – Mr. Caffrey?”

He shook himself out of his reverie. “He was –” _What? My former partner? My best friend? My worst enemy?_. “My CI – but I haven’t seen or heard from him in over a year.”

That got the detective to raise an eyebrow. “You seem awfully upset – for someone who was just a snitch.”

Peter gave him a bitter look. “Neal wasn’t a snitch. He was an embedded consultant, part of my unit for several years.”

“That’s unusual.” Both detectives seemed like they wanted to pounce on him about that.

“It was, but I really can’t discuss Neal’s work here.”

They made notes and Peter had a feeling that they’d like to revisit this. 

“Other than the fact that Mr. Caffrey likes the Cloisters, can you think of any reason why he’d be hanging around a playground in Fort Washington around midnight?”

Peter shook his head. “I have no idea. He lived – maybe still lives – on Riverside Drive, at 79th Street. What’s that – a more than hundred blocks south from where he was found?”

“Yeah. Agent Burke, we have to ask, did Mr. Caffrey have any habits that would send him out at night??” 

“What sort of habits are you talking about?” He didn’t like the tone or the question.

“Drugs.” Munch said.

“Absolutely not.” Peter was furious. “Why are you treating this like this is Neal’s fault?”

“We’re not, Agent Burke. We just are trying to figure out what happened to him. If we knew why he was there, we may be able to find a suspect.” Benson tried to smooth the waves; she was clearly the more empathetic of the two detectives. “What else can you tell us about Neal?”

“Before I tell you anything, I want to know his condition.” 

Detective Munch gave a brutal assessment. “He took a severe beating, in addition to the sexual assault. They needed to do emergency surgery to remove his spleen and re-inflate a punctured lung. It looks like he fought back hard. His left hand has several broken bones. He also has a severe head injury, and may need surgery to relieve the inter-cranial pressure. He’s lost a lot of blood and his condition is listed as critical. ”

 _Critical._ The urgent need to get to Neal propelled him out of the chair. Peter felt himself shake and the detectives’ voices were buzzing in his head.

“Agent Burke – Agent Burke, please – what else can you tell us?” Munch tried to stop him, but he shook him off. 

“Look – I’ve got to get to the hospital. Get out of my way.” He went to the balcony and called for Jones and Diana, who came running. He closed the office door, shutting the detectives out.

He was succinct. “Neal’s been hurt. I’ve got to get to the hospital. Can one of you finish answering the detectives’ questions? I’d rather that they get information from us, rather than whatever shows up in ViCAP.” In the back of his mind, Peter realized that his behavior was extraordinarily unprofessional. He didn’t care.

This was Neal and he was hurt. All the anger, the bitterness he had been clinging to for so long just washed away. 

Diana and Clinton went to deal with the detectives and Peter bolted out of the office. The elevator took too long and he ended up running down the twenty-one flights stairs to the garage. He put the bubble on the roof and pulled out of the Federal Building, zipping in and out of traffic, blowing through lights to get to the West Side Highway. It was the middle of rush hour and Peter recklessly pushed through, riding the shoulder, cutting across lanes, uncaring of his own safety or anyone else’s. The need to get to Neal was an unshakable imperative. He couldn’t stop; even a second’s delay and it could just be too late.

Peter had been to Columbia Pres enough to know how to get access to the ER as law enforcement. The badge and bubble light got him through the gate and direct access to the administrative desk. But as he was about to demand the status of Neal Caffrey he faltered, just for a moment. _Not Neal Caffrey, a John Doe sexual assault_.

The attendant, an old man in a bright red jacket was far more interested in his game of solitaire than answering questions. Peter impatiently tapped his badge on the desk.

“Oh, huh...what can I help you with?”

“A crime victim was admitted last night as a John Doe; I was told he was taken into surgery before he could be identified. I have reason to believe he’s … a member of my team.” So he lied, a little. 

The man blinked at him. 

“If you can’t help me, I’m going to tear this hospital apart until I find someone who can.” Peter kept his voice low, but his tone was vicious. 

The old man blinked again. “I think you’ll have to talk with Security, sir.”

That answer didn’t make any sense and he didn’t hesitate to say so. His voice must have carried because a security guard came over, hand on his gun.

“Sir, please step away from the desk.”

The urgency riding Peter doubled and he was ready to take out own his gun and shoot the rent-a-cop. And then thought better of it. “I am here to identify a John Doe who was brought in last night – I’m told that he needed surgery.” He repeated his request for information and all but shoved his badge in the man’s face.

“Sir. Please calm down.”

“I’ll calm down when you tell me where I can find my agent.” Another lie, and who gave a fuck?

The guard looked at him, his badge and the gun clearly visible in the shoulder rig under his jacket. “Okay – you’ll need to go up to the surgical floor – take those elevators –” He pointed to a bank of lifts twenty feet to his left. “Go to the seventh floor, make a right and the surgical desk is through a set of sliding glass doors. Someone there should be able to help you.”

“Thank you.” Peter rushed to the elevators and waited impatiently for a car to arrive. One finally did and the trip to seven was painfully slow. At least the guard’s direction was accurate. He just hoped the staff at the surgical desk were more cooperative and intelligent than the geezer downstairs.

A harried woman with tired eyes and a stethoscope draped around her neck looked up as he approached. 

Peter took a deep breath, tried to control his emotions and once more flashed his badge. “I was told a John Doe was brought in last night, he needed surgery.”

The woman, Sonia Lavalle, R.N., according to her name tag, gave him a slightly disgusted look. “This is Columbia Presbyterian, sir. We get dozens of JDs needing surgery every night. Can you be more specific?”

“Male, mid-to-late thirties, Caucasian, slim build. He was stabbed and beaten, there were head injuries, too.” Peter swallowed. “He was also sexually assaulted.”

Sonia nodded. “Okay – I know the case.” She pulled out a chart. “You say you can identify him? What is the patient’s name?”

“Neal – Neal Caffrey.”

She made the appropriate notes in the chart. “And your name?”

“Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI.”

“Your relationship to the patient?”

Peter gritted his teeth – this was the hard part and he lied like a rug. “I’m his legal next of kin.” And still another lie. “He’s also part of my team.” He willed the woman to understand, to not demand proof.

She gave him a look, probably more willing to cooperate because of the badge than anything he told her. “Okay. Come with me.”

Sonia handed him a surgical mask and a package with a sterile gown, gloves, head covering and booties. Suitably protected, he followed her as they passed through a set of glass doors and she swiped a card to access the recovery ward. Almost all of the beds were occupied, but he didn’t see anyone who looked like Neal. Sonia kept walking, to a series of glass-walled rooms, stopping at one with a patient hooked up to a half a dozen monitors.

Between the bandages on his head, the intubation covering his mouth and the facial bruising, Peter almost didn’t recognize him. It was those eyelashes – ridiculous butterfly wings resting on cheekbones violated by some inhuman animal. 

“Can I go in?”

“Just for a minute.”

Another swipe of the security card. The door buzzed and Peter entered. He reached out to touch Neal – just a single finger on a small patch of undamaged flesh.

“This is your colleague?”

“Yes.” He swallowed hard. “It’s Neal.”

“I can’t let you stay, I’m sorry.” Sonia pulled him out of the room and he trailed her as they left the post-op ward. “We’re going to need some details about him; will you be able to provide them?”

“Whatever you need.”

As Peter was giving the nurse Neal’s information, his cell phone rang. It was El. The nurse nodded at him and pointed Peter to a small waiting area where he could talk in private. 

“Hon? I thought you were on your way home. Did you get waylaid by stray mortgage fraud claims?” Her voice was filled with laughter – that was an old, old joke.

Peter closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe he never called her – not even a thought to do so in his mad ride uptown. “I’m sorry, hon.”

The humor disappeared. “What happened, Peter?”

He paused, unable to speak as the words and a sick pain crowded his mouth.

“Honey?”

“It’s Neal. He was assaulted last night.”

“Oh my god – is he okay?”

“No – it’s bad. He was brought in as a John Doe – the cops found my card in his wallet. I rushed to the hospital. I’m sorry – I should have called you. Let you know where I was. You shouldn’t have had to worry.” Guilt compounded his agony.

“Peter! I’m fine. You don’t have to coddle me – not anymore. Now, tell me – what hospital?”

He told her, but insisted that she was not to come, not now. “Neal is in isolation in ICU, you won’t be allowed to see him.” What Peter didn’t tell Elizabeth was what Neal had been through. Not over the phone. Not yet. Sonia came into the waiting room and mouthed something at him.

“Hon – look, I need to talk with his doctors. I’ll have to call you back, okay?”

“Certainly – do what you need to do, let me know what’s going on when you can.”

A man in scrubs and a cap was standing at the desk making notes in a chart. He looked up as Peter approached. “Lavalle tells me that you identified one of our John Does.” His tone was brusque.

“Yes – did you operate on him?”

The doctor turned his back on Peter, signed off on some other papers, and flipped through a couple of charts before answering. “Yes.”

“And?” Peter was not unfamiliar with this god-complex behavior, but he had no patience for it now.

“The patient came through surgery. He’s in critical but stable condition. We’re watching the head injury – that may present complications. We can’t rule out additional surgery if he continues to bleed into his brain. He’s being closely monitored and Neurosurgery has been consulted.”

Peter swallowed. “When will you know?”

The doctor checked the chart. “He’s had several CT scans already and the inter-cranial bleed hasn’t yet stabilized. If the pressure doesn’t reduce itself within the next few hours, we’re going to have to get him back into surgery.”

He had to ask. “What about brain damage?”

“Hard to say at this point. Based on the location of the bleed, it’s unlikely that the patient’s sight will be affected, but you’ll get a better response from Neuro.” The surgeon looked at him. “Any more questions?”

“No – not now.”

“I understand he’s an FBI agent.”

 _As if that were relevant to Neal’s treatment or his injuries._ “No, but Neal’s a member of my team.” Peter offered no further explanation. Best to keep the lies to a minimum. 

“Ah, okay. Well – he’s a young man, in apparent good health. If he makes it through the next twenty-four hours, he should be okay.”

 _Okay, except for everything that happened._ “Thank you.” There was nothing more to say.

He should call El back. He should go see June – he didn’t even know if Neal was living there anymore. 

_But not Mozzie_.

The last person he ever wanted to see again. If Neal was the catalyst for what happened to his wife, Moz was the architect of the destruction of his dreams. He knew, through carefully placed inquiries, that the two men had never patched up their differences, and as irrational as it was, he was furious at Moz for Neal’s sake. He had once considered, in that fit of long simmering anger, issuing a BOLO on him, if just to make his life difficult. 

He called El, filled her in on what the surgeon told her, reiterated that she shouldn’t come to the hospital and promised to let her know if anything changed.

Sitting in the dreadful little waiting room, with its decades-old magazines, dust-clogged plastic trees and posters warning about post-op infections and protection against blood-borne diseases, Peter started to cry.

Not just for Neal, but for himself. It was so _easy_ to hate Neal for what he did, for all the betrayals, all the wrong choices. It was so easy to cling to that hate because forgiveness meant examining his own complicity.

_I’ve had your back since Day One, and any time something goes wrong, I’m the first person you blame._

There had been a lot of truth in that mock fight – oh, not about the hats, and certainly not about Elizabeth getting lonely. But he had never let go of the idea that Neal was never going to change. _Because you’re a con. It’s who you are, it’s all you’ll ever be._

At the time, he hadn’t really thought he meant those words. But deep down, he must have. Wasn’t that why he pounced on Neal when he found the scrap of painting after the warehouse exploded? Wasn’t that why he nursed his righteous anger and pushed Neal away every time they seemed to get back to normal? Why he couldn’t even shake Neal’s hand when, against all odds, he completed his work release and came to say goodbye?

What if he hadn’t flown off the handle that day? What if he hadn’t made it impossible for the two of them to just talk? Would this terrifying future, that horrible past, have been different?

He leaned his head back against the wall and the tears flowed unchecked.

“Peter?” 

He looked up, blinking, as someone called his name. It was Diana. He hadn’t heard her come in and sit down next to him.

“You okay?”

He pulled a handkerchief out and wiped his face. “Yeah – no. Not really. What are you doing here?” He carefully refolded the square – it gave him something to focus on. “Sorry – stupid question.”

“That’s okay. How is he?”

“Not good, Di.” 

“The detectives told us what happened to him.” 

The thought of _that_ on top of everything else nearly set him off again. He tried to focus on procedure – on something, anything else but that. “I’m sorry I just ran. I shouldn’t have left it to you and Clinton.”

Diana actually took his hand and patted it. “We understand.”

“Did you talk with the detectives – did you tell them about Neal? The good stuff?” _Not how he lied and cheated and made a mockery out of our trust._

“Yes – the good stuff. Just the good stuff.” Diana gave him a gentle smile. “They’re here now. There are some questions that you’re probably the best one to answer. Can you?”

He let out a shuddering sigh. “Yeah. Okay.” Peter felt like an old man when he got up, the adrenalin that propelled him here was had washed out like the tide. 

Munch and Benson were talking quietly with Clinton by the desk. The nurse, Lavalle, was gone and a younger man, in startling purple scrubs had taken her place. The detectives looked up at his approach.

“I’m sorry – about before.” 

Munch nodded. “It’s okay – your agents filled us in on Mr. Caffrey. A rather intriguing individual.”

Peter had to smile. _Intriguing_. Neal would like that.

“We have a few more questions – can we talk?” Benson led them back towards the waiting room he just vacated.

“Do you have any idea who did this?” Peter had to ask.

“The park where Mr. Caffrey was found has recently seen an uptick in violent crime. It’s a quiet area, late at night – but it’s not too far from Washington Heights.” Munch answered. 

“We know do why he was there, though. I ran his name through the DMV – he has a car registered in his name and at an address on Fort Washington Avenue and 189th. It seems that he had moved into that neighborhood about three months ago. We found the car on Cabrini. He probably had parked and was cutting through the playground when he was jumped. CSU found a set of car keys that belong to that vehicle.”

“So this was random bad luck?”

“Seems that way.” Benson answered. “I’m guessing that he had credit cards – we’ll have to get the numbers and run them. Maybe the perp was dumb enough to use them.”

“Visa –” Peter rattled off the bank, the numbers and expiration date. “He’s got a MasterCard and an American Express in his name. A few cards in other names, too.”

“You memorized his credit card numbers?”

“He has credit cards in other names?

Benson and Munch spoke over each other.

Peter instantly regretted mentioning that. “It was a thing – he went undercover frequently. I needed to check Neal’s expenditures – it was easier that asking him for the statements each month. He paid all his bills, it wasn’t identity theft.” Peter added needlessly. 

Benson raised an eyebrow and handed him her notebook and pen. “Would you write down the numbers?”

He did, but he’d run them himself. Not that he didn’t trust the NYPD, but this was Neal.

* * *

The wait was endless. After he finished with Munch and Benson, he gave into Diana and Clinton’s urgings and went home. 

In halting tones, he told El what had happened and she held him as he wept. “He was almost unrecognizable, El. That bastard beat him.” _He raped him._

The dogs, sensing his distress, curled up next to him, little Cleo climbing up Satchmo’s back to reach his lap and Peter let her lick his tears away. 

A few hours later he was back at the hospital – this time El wouldn’t let him go without her. Neal had to go into surgery again, the pressure from the inter-cranial bleed was too great and they had to operate.

One hour, then two. A third hour and Peter was beyond restless. Elizabeth held his hand, but he couldn’t stay still. He paced the length of the waiting room and resisted asking the nursing staff yet again if there was any news. 

“Hon, sit down.” El patted the seat next to her. “You won’t do him any good if you wear yourself out.”

Peter thought that it was long past the time that he could have done Neal any good. He sat down anyway. The hard plastic chair was unreasonably uncomfortable and he shifted with the agitation he couldn’t contain.

“You think it’s your fault that this happened.” El said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

Peter stilled. 

“It’s not, you know. There was nothing you did or didn’t do that could have changed this course of events. Neal wasn’t committing a crime – he was going _home_. It’s not for you to say that he shouldn’t have taken an apartment in a neighborhood within walking distance of a favorite museum. Or that he shouldn’t have been out after midnight or parked his car on the street or cut through a playground. It’s not your fault.” El was panting a little from the force of her words, squeezing his hand hard enough to leave bruises.

“Hon…” 

“Just as it wasn’t Neal fault for what happened to me.” 

He started to argue that point. “That’s not true, if he hadn’t lied –”

“No, Peter. What ever Neal did or didn’t do had nothing to do with Matthew Keller kidnapping me. Nothing.” Her voice was fierce, as if she was trying to change his mind by the force of her will alone.

“I wish I could believe that.”

“You have to. It’s the only way you can go forward.”

Intellectually, he knew that. Emotionally, he still felt like a child who broke his favorite toy in a fit of anger and was sitting heartbroken amongst the shattered pieces. 

Another hour passed, the clock on the wall ticking down the moments of his life. He dozed, anxiety chasing anguish through restless dreams until Elizabeth shook him awake. A doctor – the neurosurgeon – was waiting to talk to them. 

“How is he?” That was all Peter wanted to know.

“Stable. We were able to isolate the bleeding and repair the blood vessels. Mr. Caffrey will remain in a medically induced coma for another day or so, until the peripheral swelling is reduced.”

“Will he be all right? Was there any brain damage?”

The surgeon scrubbed at his eyes and put his glasses back on; Peter was uncomfortably reminded of Mozzie. “It’s hard to say, but I am cautiously optimistic that in time, Mr. Caffrey will make a full recovery. Given the rest of his injuries, he’ll need extensive rehabilitation.” He looked at them with some compassion. “You should go home – get some rest. There is nothing you can do for him tonight.”

“We can’t see him?”

“No – not for another few hours. Go home.”

El dragged him out of the hospital. “You need to sleep for a few hours. You’ll do him no good if you collapse.”

Peter let himself be lead. There were things he was going to have to handle – if just for his own peace of mind.

Sleep didn’t come easy, and Peter’s dreams were again filled with dread and unseen horrors. He slipped out of bed hours before dawn, let the dogs out and retrieved his file on Neal; the one that he dumped in the darkest corner of the basement when he took everything out of storage. He had thought about shredding it, burning it or simply tossing it in the trash, but he couldn't. So it sat in the basement, getting a little moldy as the seasons passed.

He set out each of the birthday cards; simple, hand-drawn things on cheap paper. “Happy Birthday, Agent Burke!” _Please don’t forget about me._ The copy of Neal’s original contract, a photocopy of his ID, old case notes about James Bonds and the Atlantic Partners forgeries. But those weren’t the papers he needed.

Early in the first year of their partnership, Peter had realized that Neal had no safety net, no insurance and no one to look after him. He argued with Hughes and the Administrators Office that Neal needed basic healthcare coverage. Since he would have been entitled to it during his incarceration, he should have the same while working for the Bureau. It was bad enough they weren’t paying him a living wage or anything beyond the housing stipend.

Hughes agreed and persuaded the Administrator to add Neal to the rolls. As part of the documentation, Neal had to provide contacts and a healthcare proxy. Peter had been the natural choice. Flipping through the few remaining documents, he found what he needed – the signed and notarized forms giving Peter Burke the right to make healthcare decisions for Neal Caffrey. Peter had taken his responsibilities seriously, and had another document drawn up.

_  
“What’s this?” Neal had tossed the paper at him, slightly perturbed. “A living will?”_  


  
_“An advanced directive.” Peter gave it back. “It gives your designee the right to make end of life decisions –”_   


  
_“In case I can’t. I’m not signing this.”_   


  
_“Neal – you’re not immortal. You’re not invincible.”_   


  
_“Do you have one?”_   


  
_He had just raised an eyebrow as a response._   


  
_“But of course you do – El’s the one who gets to pull the plug.”_   


  
_“It’s not about pulling the plug or turning off life support. It’s about being responsible, about looking towards a future that may not be about cappuccino in the clouds.”_   


Something in Peter’s tone must have convinced Neal; he grabbed the pen and signed the form. Peter had hoped he’d never have to use it.

He still hoped.

He gathered up the papers, carefully putting them away. He’d have to do something about the dampness that had settled through everything, though. 

He was just finishing his third cup of coffee when El came down. “Have you heard anything?”

Peter let out a shuddering sigh. “I’ve called a few times. Neal’s condition is unchanged. Critical but stable. He’s still in ICU, but they are going to move him to a Neuro ward this afternoon.

“That’s good news.” Her tone was guarded.

“Yeah. They said I’ll be able to see him for a few minutes this morning, and once he’s in the new unit, I can spend the day.” 

“ _We_ can spend the day.” El corrected him.

Peter didn’t argue with her. He went up and took a quick shower and dressed. They took the dogs for a short walk and while he set out fresh water, El pulled out a few books.

“Hon?”

“They say that reading to a comatose patient helps. Which do you think Neal would prefer, Washington Irving’s _Sketch Book_ or _The Carpetbaggers_ by Harold Robbins.

Peter blinked at El’s attempt at levity, then smiled. “Do we even have a copy of _The Carpetbaggers_?”

She handed him the Washington Irving and dumped Peter’s ancient copy of Irving Stone’s _The Agony and the Ecstasy_ on top of that for good measure. 

By the time they got to the hospital, Neal had been transferred out of ICU and they got lost trying to find the tiny Neuro step-down ward, which was behind a series of security checkpoints and a locked access door.

It was still terrifying to see him. Neal was still on a ventilator, and would remain so until he was brought out of the medically induced coma. The bruising on his face and throat was even more livid; time had elevated the discoloration. The contrast of the dark splotches against the stark white bandage on his head was frightening.

El leaned into him, he could feel her shudders. “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”

Peter held her, rubbing his cheek against her head. “He will, he has to be.”

He sat down in one of the chairs, El next to him. The machines gave a soothing, steady beat; the whoosh of the ventilator and pinging monitors seemed to match his own heartbeat. Peter opened the copy of Washington Irving’s _Sketch-Book_ and started to read.

  


_I have often had the occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of the man and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all of the energies of the softer sex…_   


He felt El smile at the words, and continued. The hours passed, his throat got scratchy and El took over when he went in search of a drink. He came back and found El standing outside Neal’s room. The attending – the same neurosurgeon who had operated on Neal – and a small cadre of residents were discussing his case and Peter listened with care.

Most of it was incomprehensible medical jargon presented in clinical tones, but it raised Peter’s hackles to hear them discuss Neal as if he were nothing more than a piece of meat. One of the residents, though, seemed to find his condition amusing, commenting in a loud voice. “Maybe if he just relaxed and enjoyed it, he wouldn’t have gotten his head bashed in.”

Peter didn’t hear the reprimand issued by the surgeon or the other residents’ reaction to this punk’s attempt at humor as he grabbed him by the collar of his white coat and shook him against the glass wall. “You think you’re funny, you little shit? You think that it’s funny that a man, a fellow human being, gets beaten and raped and left for dead on his way home? You think?” The glass rattled ominously as he punctuated each word with another shake. No one interfered.

“I’m – I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” The resident couldn’t meet his eyes and the floor staff gathered around to watch.

Peter let him go. “I don’t want this shit head near him again.”

The attending stepped in, “Don’t worry, Dr. Sullivan’s participation in this program is at an end. And you have my apologies on his behalf, Agent Burke.”

The resident blanched at his title and Peter glared at him, hoping he’d wet himself. The rest of the residents and the attending filed out. 

Peter stood there, appalled at himself. Elizabeth kissed and whispered, “My hero.”

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, they took turns reading to Neal, switching between the two books until El told him she needed to go.

“Cleo’s probably in a state by now – if she hasn’t already flooded the newspapers. Call me and I’ll come to pick you up.”

Peter shook his head. “Not necessary, hon. There’s a subway stop just a few blocks from here, I’ll get home quicker than you coming all the way back.”

“I want you to come home tonight – understand?”

Elizabeth must have read his mind, he had been thinking about spending the night. “Okay – I promise, I’ll come home when they kick me out.”

She kissed him again, gave him a searching look and left. Peter leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He’d sit here for a while; he’d give his voice a rest, his eyes a rest. The even, repetitive tones of the monitors were better than a sleeping pill, and he dropped off into an exhausted sleep. Biological imperative took over, and the dreams came.

__  


  


_He was laying out the facts of life to Neal – as they related political motivations that sent an Interpol agent illegally undercover._   


  


_“A half a million dollars. That's the price of a dead FBI agent. You really think you can believe everything she tells you? We either take down Lao now, or our partnership comes to an end.”_   


  


_There was a sudden look of delight in Neal’s eyes, he all but gasped like a boy on Christmas morning. “We’re partners?”_   


And in the way that dreams both mimic and distort memory, the end of that conversation changed.

_“Yes we are, if I can trust you.”_  


  


_The happy light in Neal’s eyes dimmed then went out. “No, Peter. You can’t trust me. You should never trust me. I’ll always end up betraying you.”_   


  


_“Neal – why would you say that?”_   


  


_“Because it’s who I am. I was born bad, and I’ll die bad. Trust a con to betray you.”_   


  


_“You have choices, you don’t have to be a con – you do good here. You can be something more, something else.”_   


  


_“You’d like to believe that – it’s a nice fantasy. “Be a man, not a con.’ When I hit rock bottom, I’m not going to bounce.”’_   


  


_“Then where do we go from here?”_   


  


_“Send me back, Peter. Forget about me. If you want to save yourself from the grief I’ll bring to you, take me back to the prison and let me go. Forget about me. It would be for the best.”_   


  


_“No, Neal. I won’t, I can’t. You’re too good, too smart. You’re my friend.”_   


  


_“Only until I betray you.”_   


Peter woke up with a start, gasping as the tears clogged his throat. He looked at his watch; he’d been sleeping for more than an hour. It was close to four PM and the early December day was drawing to an end.

An aide popped her head into the room and gestured for him to step out.

“We’ve got to do some work on Neal – do you mind if we call him that?” She plowed on, insanely chipper. “Why don’t you go get a bite to eat and come back in about an hour – we can let you stay until eight, if you’d like.”

“Work? What are you going to do to him?”

“Oh, give him a sponge bath, change the bandages, check that all his tubes are right, probably change out the cath, you know – all the little humiliations.” She grinned, taking some of the sting out of her words. “Your brother will be fine.”

“Neal’s not my brother – he’s my friend.”

If anything, the aide’s smile got brighter. “You’re a good friend – a really good one, to sit with him like that – to read to him. Saw how you took down that pompous snot before. No one ever listens when we aides complained about him playing grab ass.”

“Well, you’re welcome.” Peter couldn’t think of anything else to say. He felt like a fraud – he wasn’t a good friend. This felt an act of expiation for all the times he let Neal down.

The aide pointed him in the direction of the cafeteria, and promised again that she’d take good care of Neal.

Peter had no intention of eating – the food smelled revolting, but the coffee was surprisingly decent. He called Elizabeth and updated her, saw that both Clinton and Diana left text messages inquiring about Neal, and there was a voice mail from Detective Munch, asking him to call back as soon as he could.

“How’s he doing?”

“They had to operate again, last night.” Peter explained. “But he’s doing okay now, according to the doctors. They moved him out of ICU this morning. He’s still in a medically induced coma, though.”

“Hmmm – so we won’t be able to talk to him for another few days, I guess.”

“At least. Were you able to track any usage on Neal’s credit cards?”

“Actually – that’s why I called. Someone went to town on them – we caught a skel red-handed, he’s got a list of priors as long as my arm, including assault and male-on-male sexual battery. Even better news is that the punk’s DNA is in the database.”

“Is it a match?” Peter held his breath.

“Too soon to know – it’ll take a week before the results are in. Of course, if your boy could ID the doer, it would so much easier.”

_Your boy._

“Until he’s awake, we won’t be able to ask. Can you hold him for that long?”

“Don’t worry about that – we’ve got him on the stolen credit cards and his fingerprints are on Mr. Caffrey’s wallet. Given his priors, he’ll be charged and held, the DA will get remand.”

The talked for a few minutes more and just as he was about to hang up, something occurred to Peter. “Listen, did your ERT happen to find a hat in the playground?”

“ERT? Oh, you mean CSU. What type of hat?”

“Men’s – a fedora or trilby. Beaver felt, probably black or dark gray. Neal wore – wears – vintage hats.”

“Hold on, let me check.”

Peter could hear the detective flipping through his notepad. 

“No – we didn’t. But maybe our doer took it as a trophy. I’ll have his apartment checked.”

He closed his eyes, trying to remember the tag he’d probably seen a hundred times. “Look for something old, from Dobbs Fifth Avenue, Size 8.” 

There was the sound of a pen scratching in the background. “Why am I not surprised that you remember that, Agent Burke? What’s going to happen when your brain gets full?”

Peter chuckled. “I’ll let you know. Call me if you have any more information.”

“Will do – and my best to Mr. Caffrey. Let us know when he’d up and ready to talk.”

* * *

Peter got back to Neal’s room just as the aide and a nurse were finishing up with him. He settled back into the chair and picked up one of the books. This time it was the fictional biography of Michelangelo and started to read to Neal again. He lost track of time, and El called, telling him that he needed to be at the front of the hospital no later than eight-fifteen. She’d be there with the dogs, and if he didn’t want Cleo to pee on the leather seat, he’d be there on time.

The next day followed the same routine, except that El had an event to manage so Peter was by himself. Instead of reading, he started talking, trying to explain.

“We’ve moved back to Brooklyn; I though Elizabeth would never want to go back there, but she was the one who suggested it. I cosseted her, wrapped in cotton, protected her like she was the Hope Diamond. I forgot that the Hope Diamond _is_ a diamond – the hardest, most durable gem of all. I was so afraid of her being afraid that I wasn’t letting her heal.

“She insists that it wasn’t your fault – what happened.” He paused, searching for the words. “That your choices were not the reason why she was kidnapped. That would be like blaming that iceberg for being in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean when the Titanic hit it.” He sighed, exasperated with himself. “I don’t even think I’m making any sense.”

“What I’m trying to say is – I’m sorry. I’m as much to blame as anyone. I hope – I hope you’ll be able to understand that. And I’ve missed you, I’ve tried not to – but I do. It’s there, all the time. You’re standing at my shoulder, a ghost of my lost contentment. I see you out of the corner of my eye, but you’re never really there, are you?”

The only answer he got was the still-steady beat of the monitors. He had to stop this maudlin train of thought.

“Not much else has changed – Hughes is retiring, I’m up for his slot. My clearance rate is down a little – ninety-two percent these days. I guess I’m slipping a bit, without you.” 

Peter rambled on, telling Neal about a string of new cases – a very talented thief who was targeting private erotica collections. “Some of that stuff – it would make you go blind.”

“We have a new puppy, by the way. Not that there’s anything wrong with Satchmo – she keeps him young. And he’s patient. Cleo – that’s her name – has a thing for his tail. She chases it. Reminds me a bit of you and me – when he lets her catch it, she doesn’t quite know what to do.

“She was part of a litter from a rescue. Do you know about the Amish and how they run those terrible puppy mills? Well, El did a fundraiser for a Golden Retriever rescue operation in Pennsylvania, and she waived her fee in exchange for one of the pups. She’s the sweetest little girl and has us all wrapped around her paws.”

Peter talked until he had no more words, and then read to Neal until his voice gave out. It was Sunday and there were no grand rounds, but an attending – not Neal’s surgeon – stopped by to check on him.

This doctor, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes, checked the chart, made some notes and fiddled with some of the leads, and made more notes.

“When will he be able to wake up?” Peter asked.

The doctor wasn’t particularly forthcoming. “When the swelling goes down.”

“Should it take so long?”

“It takes as long as it has to. He’s doing fine.”

Peter’s bullshit meter was heading into the red zone.

She must have seen something on his face and gave him a better answer. “He’ll go down for a CT scan tonight – if the results are positive, we’ll start bringing him out of the coma.”

“Okay – okay. I’d like to be here when that happens.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible – he’ll need to be extubated first, then there are other protocols that need to be followed. We’ll let you know when you can come back.”

Peter sat with Neal through the night, reading and talking. He was beginning to hate the sound of his own voice.

“I miss you.” 

Three simple words. “I can’t wait for you to wake up – I can’t wait to hear your voice. And I am dreading it too – will you remember what happened to you? Will I need to explain? Will you be all right?”

And the hardest question of all. “Will you forgive me?”

__________________

_His world was reduced to a dark tunnel, and something was chasing him. No – not a tunnel, a maze. He tried to find his way out but the beast was always behind him, just a few steps from tearing him apart._

_He couldn't scream. He was too afraid to make a sound, the monster would find him. He wanted to whisper a prayer for help – a simple prayer; all he wanted to ask for was someone to hear him in the darkness, someone to help him, someone to protect him._

_But there was no one – no one who would come and save him. He learned that lesson so long ago. He could rely on no one. Calling out in the darkness was pointless and dangerous._

_The beast was closer; he could feel its hot breath on his neck, its sharp claws as they skimmed down his back._

_He ran through the maze, the beast dogging his every step, and he couldn’t stop – it would catch him, devour him. And even if it didn’t, he was lost here forever. This was prison of his own making, with walls that disappeared into the darkness, endless paths leading to nowhere. He could be moving in circles but there was no light, no way to see. There was no way out._

_Maybe he should just give up._

_He stopped moving, waiting for the beast to find him. But instead, he found something new, a thread of light. He reached out and the light grew stronger when he touched it. It was the only sensation that wasn’t pain, that wasn’t fear._

_This thread – he carefully pulled on it. It was strong, he knew it wouldn’t break – not now, maybe not ever. The thread became a rope, gold and silver intertwined. It spoke to him, the voices were familiar, beloved. He couldn’t name them, though. It didn’t matter. As long as he held onto it, he knew he could hope._

_There were words that sang along this rope, phrases that made him happy in inexplicable ways. They chased away the darkness, they banished the fear, they soothed the pain. The words kept the monster away._

_The rope stretched out, and he started to follow it, never letting go. It was leading him home._

* * *

“Mr. Caffrey – you need to wake up now. Wake up, Mr. Caffrey.” The voice was loud, painful to his ears. He turned his head away from it. 

Another voice, “Neal, come on, open your eyes. Please, baby?” The voice was familiar, a woman’s voice.

He didn’t want to get up – it was Saturday, he didn’t have to go to school. “No, five more minutes, mom. Please?” His voice sounded funny – deep and scratchy. Maybe that’s why someone was laughing.

“Neal, it’s time to wake up.” 

That voice was implacable, irresistible. He tried to obey, but his eyelids felt glued shut. Someone wiped them with a warm liquid and then patted his face dry. 

“Open your eyes, please.” The voice was now pleading. He didn’t like that and with a monumental effort, he raised his eyelids. There were people leaning over him, people he didn’t recognize. An older man with glasses and a stethoscope, flashed a light into his eyes, he turned away from it, irritated.

The man asked, in a loud voice, “Can you tell me your name?”

They called him Neal, so this must be a safe place. “Neal Caffrey?”

“Okay, Neal. Now, how many fingers am I holding up?” The man held up three and he instinctively said “four.”

“Neal?” That voice again.

“Three – three fingers.”

“Can you tell me what year it is?”

That one required some thinking. “2015?”

The man smiled, nodded and asked him to do a few more things: squeeze his fingers, touch his nose with his right hand, tell him if he could feel pinpricks, if he could wiggle his toes. He finally stepped back and made a pronouncement. “It seems that Mr. Caffrey will be fine.”

_Was there something wrong with him?_

All he wanted to do was close his eyes and go back to sleep.

“No, no – Mr. Caffrey – you need to stay awake for a little while longer.” Someone with warm hands was fiddling with his clothes. 

“No – .” No one should be touching him – he didn’t want anyone touching him. Neal flung out a hand, but it felt strange and heavy. He opened his eyes again and looked at it. There was a cast wrapped around his left hand, up to the tips of his fingers. “Wha?”

“Neal – just relax, no one will hurt you.”

He knew that voice – he had heard it in the darkness, when he clung to that golden thread. But hands were on his body again and he was afraid. He needed to fight, to get away.

“Shh, Neal. Relax, I won’t let anyone hurt you now.”

He tried to find that voice, but he felt like he was swimming through molasses – everything was too dense. But he obeyed and the hands that were bothering his body were gentle and worked quickly. The air was cool against his skin when they lifted his – what – hospital gown? There were other voices, he wanted to retreat when something cold and wet touched him. 

“Just an antiseptic wash on the incision. You’re doing just fine, Neal.”

Another set of hand rolled him over and he whimpered. “We’re almost done.” They did more things with the wet cold, and he sighed with relief when they covered him again and pulled up the covers.

“You’re chilled, aren’t you?” 

He tried to nod, but his teeth were clattering too hard. Relief came quickly as he was tucked in with a deliciously warm blanket.

The voices grew indistinct as he drifted back to sleep.

“...hat – it’ll keep him warm.”

Neal smiled. He liked hats.

* * *

The next time Neal woke, there was daylight streaming into his eyes and Elizabeth Burke was sitting next to his bed.

“Hey there, sleepy head.”

He tried to reply but his lips were like parchment. 

“Oh, hold on.” She reached for a cup and a white stick, swabbing his mouth with cool water. He opened his mouth and she gave his tongue a swipe and fed him a few chips of ice. They tasted … delicious.

“More?”

He nodded and Elizabeth gave him a few more.

“Enough? I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Thank you.” Was that his voice? Why was it so harsh? “What happened?” He knew he was in the hospital, but he didn’t know way. And why would Elizabeth Burke, of all people, be at his bedside?

“You were hurt.” 

He didn’t like the way she said that. It stirred something dark and anxious in him.

“Hurt? How?”

Her lips tightened and she looked up, towards the door. Neal followed the path her eyes took. Peter was standing there.

 _Peter._ He wanted to smile, but his face hurt too much.

Elizabeth brushed his hair off his brow, tucking it into a wool cap. She pressed a kiss on his cheek and left them. He wanted to call her back. And that was something he had no right to do.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The only thing he could think of was that last awful moment when he said goodbye, he wanted to apologize again – and then, as now – the words stuck in his throat.

Then Peter smiled. “You’re awake.”

He nodded, like the village idiot.

“How do you feel?”

“I don’t know.” Three words. That was all he could manage at the moment.

“Are you in a lot of pain?”

He took stock of himself. His head ached, his belly and chest hurt, but the worst was his wrist and hand. His fingers were immobilized. He lifted it up.

“Broken?”

“Yes – there was a lot of damage there. It hurts?”

“Yeah.” Neal couldn’t remember anything except the dark. He started to panic. “What happened to me?” _Shit, he was crying._ “Sorry.”

Peter sat down in the chair El had vacated. “You were hurt. Someone attacked you.”

The geology of his soul shifted as a decade of hard-won security fell away. The edges of his vision turned black. Was that desperate sound coming out of his own throat? “No – no – no.” He began to struggle, something was pressing down on his chest, he couldn’t breath. “NO.” He had to get free, he had to find someplace safe.

“Neal – NEAL – look at me!” 

Peter’s command cut through the adrenalin-fueled panic. Neal turned to him, helpless, despairing. “Please…” He reached through the bars. “Don’t leave me here – don’t let them hurt me again.” 

Peter stood over him, a large, warm hand gently stroking his forehead, his cheek, wiping away his tears. “I’m here, I’ll keep you safe.” There was a catch in Peter’s voice, like he was crying too. “I’ll keep you safe.”

The wave of panic receded, leaving him drained, empty, weak. “You didn’t forget me?”

“No, Neal – I’ll never forget you, ever. Now, go back to sleep. I’ll watch out for you.”

He closed his eyes and trusted Peter to keep his word. He always did.

* * *

Peter sat and as he watched Neal fall back into a restless sleep, his heart shattered. How had he not known this? How had he never even guessed?

_Would it have made a difference?_

El came back in, a cup of coffee from the thermos she’d brought in her hands. “What happened?”

He shook his head. “Not now, I can’t talk about it. Just let me sit with him.”

She gave him the cup; he took a sip and grimaced. The coffee was good, but it didn’t mix well with the bile in his mouth. He handed her back the cup. Neal’s hand, the one without the cast, twitched restlessly on top of the blankets. Peter held on to it, but Neal started to shiver. He looked at Elizabeth, who knew just what to do. 

An aide came in a few minutes later, with an armful of warm blankets and Peter thought he would never get the smell of cheap laundry soap and heated cotton out of his nose. The weight and the fresh warmth settled Neal down and he fell into a deeper, less agitated sleep, but he clung to his hand like it was a lifeline.

* * *

The sunlight was gone when Neal woke again. His head was clearer, and pain was still there, but so was Peter. _It wasn’t a dream._

He watched the man who had been his lodestone for so long. Until he nearly destroyed everything that Peter loved, everything he stood for, everything that was right and good. 

Neal didn’t understand why he was here now, with him. But that hand, warm and calloused was gently squeezed his in a slow, even rhythm, sweeping his thumb over his knuckles. The gesture was so comforting that Neal wanted to cry like a lost child now found. 

He must have made a noise. Peter looked up, gave him a small smile.

“How are you now?”

“Okay, I think.”

Peter squeezed his hand again. “Good.”

“What happened to me, Peter? Why are you here?”

“Neal –”

He could hear the reluctance in that single syllable. “Please, Peter. Please.”

“I don’t think you’re ready.”

Neal felt the now familiar rising tide of panic, the darkness. “I need to know – I can’t bear not knowing.”

Peter licked his lips and swallowed. “The best the police can figure out is that you were jumped around midnight last Thursday –”

“ _Last_ Thursday? What day is it now?”

“It’s Wednesday evening.”

 _Almost a week – I’ve lost almost a week of my life._ “What else?”

“You were found in a playground adjacent to Fort Tryon Park in Fort Washington.”

He nodded. “I’ve sublet a co-op at 189th and Fort Washington Boulevard.”

“Why?”

“Why, what?” Peter’s question confused him.

“Why did you leave June’s? I can’t think that she would have kicked you out.”

“No.” Memories ate at him. “I wanted to make a clean break from everything. To put it all behind me. The new place was only temporary – a few months until I ...” He paused, uncertain of his reasons.

“Until what?” The question was gentle, but Neal felt the weight of it.

“Until I decided if I was going to stay in New York.” He could see the million questions that Peter wanted to ask. “Who found me?”

“The police. You were spotted on a routine patrol.”

“How come you’re here? How did you know?”

“You kept my card. The police found your wallet in a trashcan, it was the only thing left in it.”

That piece of cardboard had been a talisman for the last year – he’d take it out, brush his thumb across the raised letters, as if they were Braille or a secret code or an ancient language whose meaning was just beyond his ken. Even now, he could feel the contrast of the slick lettering and paper on his fingers and wondered if he’d be able to get it back.

“The detectives assigned to your case came to the office; they wanted me to identify you.”

He should have kept his mouth shut, he should have just accepted this for what it was – but he couldn’t. “I’m surprised you didn’t tell them to piss off.”

The silence that followed echoed until he thought he’d shatter from it. 

“I deserve that.”

“No – no you don’t. I’m –”

“Don’t you dare apologize to me, Neal. Don’t you fucking dare.” Peter squeezed his hand again. He didn’t let go. Neal wondered if he’d fall back it the darkness when Peter finally did.

“Okay – what else? What else happened?”

“Neal –” Peter took a deep breath.

“It was more than just a mugging, wasn’t it?” There was a sick familiarity to this. “What else happened to me?” 

“You were raped.” The words fell like stones. Peter gripped his hand even tighter, as if to anchor him to the world. 

He could hear his heart beat, the pulsing of blood in his veins. This was what he was afraid of – not the violation – but that he couldn’t remember that it happened. “Once – once I wished for such oblivion.”

Peter’s hand on his was the connection to the _now_. He focused on that.

“Neal – why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“There was nothing you could have done – it happened, I survived. I made sure it would never happen again.” He laughed, loud and bitter. “I got lazy, I forgot about staying safe.” 

_I forgot that you weren’t there to watch my back_.

He pushed that thought out of his head – it was wrong, unfair. “What else – what else happened?”

“Do you want a list of your injuries?”

Neal swallowed against the sour taste of fear. “Yes. Please.”

He listened, appalled – head trauma and brain surgery, the collapsed lung, broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, internal bleeding, as well as the broken wrist and fingers. 

“Neal – you okay?” Peter winced. “Sorry – that was a stupid question.”

A wave of exhaustion overtook him. Sleep seemed like a good idea, he could escape everything in sleep. That had always worked. 

“No – it’s all right.” He closed his eyes. “Will you be here when I wake?” 

“I’ll be here until they kick me out.”

“Okay – if I’m not up – wake me before you leave.” His voice was slurring.

“I’m here for you. You don’t have to be afraid.”

* * *

Peter stayed with Neal through the night, going home just to shower and change and check in with the team, a routine that continued for the next two days. Elizabeth spent time with him too. She stayed with Neal when Peter was gone, so he wouldn’t have to wake up alone, frightened.

There had been many terrible quiet moments in his life, and this one would rank as one of the worst, next to holding El as she woke up screaming in terror, and watching his father die slowly die from lung cancer. 

And he didn’t know what was worse – telling Neal of his own violation or the dawning comprehension that Neal – bright and shining – had been hurt in prison. _What did you expect? He didn’t spend four years in a country club._

Peter paced the length of the room, his eyes never leaving the still, bruised figure on the bed. He suspected that Neal would never talk to him about that, and would probably regret what he inadvertently told him. He had never met anyone who had a more impenetrable armor than Neal Caffrey. It took all his will to push aside the past. 

His cell phone buzzed with an incoming call – it was Detective Benson. Peter stepped out of the room to answer it.

“How is he?”

“Awake.”

“And?”

“He doesn’t remember anything, so far.”

“Nothing?”

“He knew he was hurt, but nothing specific. I had to tell him –” He couldn’t finish that sentence.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know how you do this – day after day, Detective Benson.”

“It’s what I do.”

“Will you have enough evidence if Neal can’t ID his attacker?”

“The DNA from the rape kit was a match, but having the victim identification may be necessary. And your question about Neal’s missing hat gave us more evidence. We found a black fedora from Dobbs Fifth Avenue in the perp’s apartment.”

“Neal should be able to identify his own hat.”

“We’d like to talk to him. It would still be best if he could ID his attacker. Do you think he’ll be able to answer our questions today?”

“He’s sleeping now. Can you wait until tomorrow? Neal’s still processing what happened to him.”

There was a pause at the other end.

“Have you told him anything about the attack – other than it happened?”

Peter felt a flash of annoyance. “I may not work in violent crimes, but I know better than to tamper with a witness’ memory.”

“But he’s also your friend and someone you care about.”

“Sorry. All I told Neal was that he was attacked and a list of his injuries. Nothing more.”

“Good – and thank you, Agent Burke. If Neal starts remembering anything – call me or Munch immediately.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Peter ended the call and went back into Neal’s room. He was restless, but Neal was sleeping quietly. He picked up the copy of _The Agony and the Ecstasy_ and noted with dismay that the binding was falling apart. He opened the book at a random point and smiled, Michelangelo was carving his David. He started reading aloud – keeping his voice soft. This was more for the enjoyment of the words than anything else. 

An hour passed in easy pleasure, but his throat grew dry and his eyes, tired. He closed the book and stretched his legs.

“Why’d you stop?” Neal murmured, eyes still closed. “You were getting to the good part.”

“Playing possum, Neal?”

“Mmmm, yeah.”

“How are you doing?”

Neal opened his eyes and looked much more alert than he had each of the previous times he woke. “I think okay. They’re probably pumping me full of good stuff.”

“Probably.”

“What time is it?”

Peter checked his watch. “Around four, why?”

“You’ve been here all day.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Don’t you have to be at the office? It’s still a work day, right?”

“Don’t worry about that – I have a very competent staff. All of whom are very worried about you, by the way.”

Neal seemed to get agitated by that. “Does everyone know what happened?”

Peter understood what Neal was asking. “No – Diana and Clinton just spread the word that you were jumped and had your head coshed.”

“But those two know about everything else?”

Peter nodded. “They knew only because the detectives who are working your case are from Special Victims.”

“Sex crimes?”

“They’re a little more than that – but yeah.”

“They’ll want to talk with me, right?”

“Yep. Do you think you’ll be up to it tomorrow?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You do, actually.”

Neal looked up, puzzled. “I do?”

“Yes – but you should.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing, Neal. I spoke with one of the detectives a little while ago – she’d like to stop by in the morning.”

“I’ll be here.”

“So will I.”

Neal looked at him, an odd expression on his face.

“What’s the matter?”

He sighed. “I guess I’m still trying to figure this out.”

“This?”

“Us – why you’re here. Why you’re doing this.”

Peter didn’t know how to answer that, but he had to try. “I was wrong – I should never have cut you out after you rescued Elizabeth. I was wrong from the beginning. If there was someone responsible for that mess – it was me.”

“Peter – no.”

He started this and couldn’t stop. “I never thought you could change. Deep down, I never believed you’d be anything more than what you already were. And then I set out to do everything to prove myself right.”

“A martyr complex doesn’t suit you, Peter. And you’re wrong.”

“I don’t think this is a discussion we should be having now – not when you’re less than three days out of a coma.” 

“Then when? Are you doing this because you feel guilty?”

“Neal –”

“If you’re only here out of guilt, you can go.”

“I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not here out of guilt. I am here because I am your friend – something I forgot.”

Neal was quiet for a few moments. “I’m sorry.”

Peter knew that the apology was for a lot more than Neal’s outburst. “So am I.” He reached out and took Neal’s hand. He was the one who needed comfort this time and he was terrified that Neal was going to pull away.

He didn’t.

* * *

“You’re making excellent progress, Mr. Caffrey.” The doctor, whose name he didn’t get, flashed a light into his eyes a few times. “We’ll do another CT scan and start looking at your options for rehab.

“I’m more than ready to get out of here. The catheter came out this morning; I was beginning to feel like if I didn’t get to take a real piss, my dick was going to fall off.”

The doctor gave him a look and an uncertain smile. 

“What, I can’t make jokes about my dick because of what happened to me?”

The man shrugged, apologized and quickly left the room.

“Some people get freaked out when dealing with victims of sexual assault – they have expectations.” A handsome woman with dangerous eyes and a gold shield on her belt stepped into his room.

“That I’m supposed to quiver and cower and cry at the least little thing?”

“Generally. But you’re a man who’s made a career out of defying expectations.” That came from a tall, cadaverously thin man – also wearing a gold shield.

“I guess you’re the detectives on my case?” Neal stretched his lips into something he hoped was close to the full Caffrey, but he suspected it was a creepy grimace.

“Olivia Benson – this is my partner, John Munch.”

“You want to ask me questions about the attack.”

Benson pulled up a chair – Peter’s chair. “Look – I know it will be difficult – but we need you to try to remember as much as possible.”

“It’s been a week. What are the odds of catching the guy?”

The two detectives looked at each other. Benson nodded at her partner.

“What?”

“We have a suspect already in custody; he was caught with your credit cards. His fingerprints were on your wallet. We found a vintage hat in his apartment and he’s not the vintage-hat-wearing type.”

She pulled out a photograph of it, and he nodded. “Yeah, that’s mine.”

“Good – and maybe you could try to identify the man who assaulted you.”

“I don’t remember what he looked like.” Neal felt himself trembling, a sick, anxious knot of fear building in his stomach. “I didn’t see his face, it was dark. I don’t remember anything. I can’t help you.” _Go away – go away – go away_.

“We have a photo array – maybe if you look at the pictures, it will jog your memory.”

“No – I said, I DON’T REMEMBER!” Neal shouted, the words a shield against the old terror.

“Detectives!” Peter stalked into the room. Peter was here, Peter had his back now. He’d make them understand.

“Damn it, I thought it was understood that I would be present when you questioned Neal.”

“Agent Burke –”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses – do you normally treat assault victims like criminals under interrogation? You’re supposed to be the top of your squad but this is like an amateur production of Dragnet.” 

“Peter –” Neal thought it prudent to interrupt. Not that he wasn’t enjoying the scene of Peter ripping the detectives apart.

“Neal – you don’t have to say anything. They have no right to upset you.” 

“Peter – it’s okay. I was overreacting.” He was a little embarrassed at his behavior.

“Neal – you don’t have to apologize.” 

He couldn’t help but notice the two detectives watching them like this was a tennis match. What must they be thinking?

Munch cleared his throat. “Agent Burke – we were just asking if Mr. Caffrey could look at a photo array. If he can’t – we’ll have to hope his attorney doesn’t challenge the original DNA testing.”

“What?” Neal was confused. “What DNA test?”

Peter glared at Benson. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Tell me what?” He looked at each of the three people in the room.

Benson replied. “The DNA from the rape kit sample was a match for the suspect we have in custody.”

“I don’t understand why you need me to ID him. I though DNA evidence was conclusive proof.”

“Not unless the defendant challenges the lab work.” Peter replied with a bitter tone.

Munch explained, “We’ve had some trouble with the labs that have done DNA testing on convicted sex offenders as part of the city’s database. That’s not to say that this testing will be thrown out, but if that is the case, and we have to retest, it will be easier to get a warrant for the suspect’s DNA with a positive ID. He could always say that he found your wallet, and all we’d get him on would be the use of stolen credit cards..” 

Neal thought for a moment and made a decision. “Give me the photo array.”

“Neal –”

“Peter – it’s okay, just let me get this over with.” He wasn’t sure he’d recognize anyone, but he had to try.

Benson pulled out a set of photos – head and profiles on individual cards. He laid them out as if he were dealing out a game of solitaire.

Three he immediately discarded. Then a fourth. The fifth could have been – and he picked it up, held it close to his face, then did the same to the sixth. He got nauseous and images started flickering behind his eyes like a flip book, starting slowing then moving to full speed. He dropped the picture back onto the table.

“This one – I’m positive.”

Munch made a few notes and Benson took the photos back. “Do you remember anything specific?”

“I’m not sure.” He squeezed his eyes shut. The images persisted. “He grabbed me, punched me and my keys went flying. I fought back, we were under a lamp pole – everything was colored orange. He laughed when I tried to hit him.” There were more memories than that, but he wasn’t sure if they were from last week or a decade ago. He scrubbed at his face, hating the ache from the bruises, the heavy scruff and the fragility of his emotions.

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” 

“It’s time you left.” That was Peter, and from under his eyelashes, he watched him herd the detectives out of the room.

__________________

Peter walked with Benson and Munch to the elevators.

“You’re awfully protective of Neal.” Peter could detect more than a hint of curiosity in Benson’s voice. And maybe some judgment, but he could be projecting.

“He’s my friend.” That was the only reply worth making.

“A friend you said you hadn’t seen in over a year.” Munch commented.

He turned on them. “Look – whatever you have to say, say it. Or shut up and do your job.”

“We are doing our jobs, Agent Burke – it’s just that we rarely seen this level of protectiveness between ‘friends’ – especially those who’ve been estranged.”

Peter hoped the flush he felt rising across his face would be attributed to his anger. “Do my reactions have anything to do with how you handle Neal’s case?”

“Well, no –”

“Then you’re just curious, right?”

Munch shrugged. “It is vulgar curiosity – but we’re cops. We’re paid to be alert to the unusual, and frankly, Agent Burke, your behavior is very unusual, particularly between handler and CI, between cop and criminal.”

Peter had to respect the man and his point of view. “Tell me – have you done any research into Neal Caffrey?”

“Not really research. The fingerprint identification included the summary from his entry in ViCAP – arrested for a bunch of white collar crimes, but the only conviction was bond forgery. Which is what make us all the more curious – there were a lot of holes there.” Munch replied.

“Because none of Neal’s work with the Bureau would be in ViCAP, and naturally the nature of his role with the FBI is still protected.”

“Can you fill us in?”

Peter debated with himself – there was no real reason to tell the cops anything, but their continuing speculation could affect the investigation, despite their assertion. “I just want to know what you may or may not be aware of.” 

He took a deep breath, about to plunge into the deep end. “About thirteen years ago, I took on a case – a series of forged securities were turning up at banks all over New York. They were superlative. I spent three years chasing the forger – who was suspected of dozens of white collar crimes in the U.S. and Europe. I finally caught him.”

“Neal Caffrey.”

Peter nodded. “He was only convicted for the bond forgeries and he went to prison for four years. But he made a boneheaded mistake and escaped with just three months left on his sentence.”

“Why?”

“To chase after his girlfriend.” Peter had to smile at the memory. “I caught him six hours later. He was a pathetic wreck, sitting on the floor of an abandoned apartment, clutching an empty bottle of wine.”

“You felt sorry for him?”

“Yeah – didn’t trust him, but I felt sorry for him. He was going to get another four years for the stunt.”

“Must have been some girl.”

“You don’t really want to know. But something came up – an opportunity. I took a chance and got Neal a deal for a work-release with the White Collar division.”

“That’s what you meant when you said he was embedded in your unit.”

“From the start, Neal was …” Peter shook his head at the memory. “Spectacular. They called us Gotham City’s most famous cop and robber. As illogical as it sounds, we were partners. We became friends.”

“What happened?”

Peter grimaced. If either detective was the least bit curious after this, they’d find out everything with it they put some effort into it. “One of Neal’s old associates used the relationship to arrange my kidnapping and break out of prison.” 

Munch looked like he was about to start interrogating him. He held up a hand. “No – don’t ask for details. About a year later, he tried leverage a non-existent horde of stolen Nazi loot out of Neal by kidnapping my wife.”

“Wait – I remember that. Three years ago – an FBI agent’s wife was kidnapped. The suspect never went to trial – he was garroted at the Metropolitan Correctional Center. It was pinned on the Russian mob, but his lawyer made noises that the FBI had him killed as retribution.” Munch looked at him with more than a little respect.

“My partner is a fan of conspiracy theories.” Benson said by way of apology.

“Believe me – if I could have, I’d have put a bullet between Matthew Keller’s eyes. But I didn’t. He owned the Russians over two million dollars. They were just waiting for the chance to make an example out of the bastard.”

“He was in solitary, maximum security. Kind of makes you wonder how the Russians got to him.”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. Keller was facing capital charges.”

“And the ‘Russians’ just accelerated the judicial murder.”

Benson shook her head; apparently this was an old argument between them. “What about Neal?”

“I blamed Neal – wrongly blamed him – for what happened to my wife. He worked out the rest of his sentence and left the Bureau. I have regretted how things ended between us.” Peter stuck his hands in his pockets and wondered if he said too much. “That’s the story of Neal Caffrey and Peter Burke. Any questions?”

“Oh, I think there’s a lot more to it, but you’ve given us more than we asked.”

Munch pressed the down button for the elevator. “We still have Neal’s keys.”

“Do you need them for evidence?” Peter wanted to get inside Neal’s apartment – he wanted to see what his life was like now.

“No – we can have them dropped off here later today.”

“Thank you and I’m sorry for – before.”

Benson stuck out her hand and Peter took it. “It’s okay. We’ve seen a lot worse.”

“I guess you have. One more thing. Did Neal actually pick his attacker out of the array?”

Munch nodded. “He did – and it looks like he’s starting to remember.”

Peter noticed that too.

The elevator door opened. “The DA will present the additional charges this week. We’ll let you know what’s going on.”

Peter stood there as the doors shut. He was exhausted.

* * *

Neal did his best to push away the returning memories; he didn’t want to deal with them now. But he could still feel the beast’s claws as they pushed into his back, the hard kick of boots. _Stop it. Just stop it_

Peter returned and Neal couldn’t help but notice how tired he looked. When was the last time he’d gotten a good night’s sleep? He felt irrationally guilty but he didn’t want to tell Peter to go home, to leave him. He didn’t want to be alone now. Maybe in a little while, when the bite of memory wasn’t so sharp.

“What did the detectives have to say? You were with them for quite a while.”

“We talked a little – they were curious about our relationship.”

“Oh?” He supposed that was inevitable. 

“I gave them the highlight reel – that’s all.”

“Hmmm – I can just imagine.” 

“You’ll give yourself a headache, trying to read with what they’re pumping into you.”

Neal closed the book with a snap and winced as the binding crackled. “Sorry.”

“You okay?”

“I guess. I don’t know. I have to tell myself that it’s better to remember, than to keep wondering what’s in the darkness.”

Peter sat down and took the book off of his lap. Neal watched as he ran his thumb down the binding. “This was my father’s. He wasn’t really one for reading – but there was something about this book that captured him. He used to tell me that he didn’t identify with Michelangelo – but with his father. He’d tell me that he felt the same pride in me that that ‘old man Buonarotti’ had in his genius son.” 

“I wish I could have known him.” What a difference that may have made in his life.

“I do too.” Peter replied. “El said something about bringing you lunch today. You up for homemade chicken soup?” 

The NG tube had come out that last night, and Neal had had his first semi-solid meal. Peter had taken one look at the tray and bolted. He didn’t blame Peter at all – the mush they fed him was revolting. 

“Yeah – more than ready. Any chance for noodles? Or dumplings?”

“Don’t push it, Caffrey.”

He grinned. Peter smiled back. “Do you want me to read to you?”

“Please.” Then something occurred to him. “Wait – what day is it?”

“Friday.”

“No, no – I mean the date – what’s today’s date?”

“The ninth of December, why? What’s the matter.”

He cursed a blue streak. 

“Neal?”

“I need to make a call. Can I borrow your phone?”

“Can you tell me what’s the matter?” Peter reached into his pocket for his phone.

“I have until tonight to accept a job offer.”

Peter stopped, shock written all over his face. “A job offer? A real job – here in New York?”

Neal nodded, a shy smile on his lips. “Yep.”

“Where? Who?”

Neal took a deep breath. “Atlantic Partners. Stuart Gless has asked me to join as a security analyst.” He wondered what Peter would think of that, given his long history with the Glesses.

Peter handed Neal his phone and couldn’t stop grinning. 

Neal thought for a moment, remembering Stuart’s cell phone number and dialed. Peter got up to leave, to give him some privacy but Neal waved him back.

Gless answered on the second ring.“Stuart? Neal Caffrey.”

_“Ah – was wondering why ‘Peter Burke’ was calling me.”_

“I lost my phone – Peter was kind enough to lend me his.”

_“I hope you’re going to give me an answer at last – a positive one.”_

“Yes, that’s why I’m calling. I know I’m cutting it close, but I would be honored to accept your offer.”

_“That’s terrific, when can you start?”_

“I’m afraid that’s going to be something of a question.”

_“Oh – why?”_

Neal winced – this was the part of the conversation he dreaded. “I was mugged last week. I’ve been in the hospital since Thursday.”

_“Neal – my god! Are you all right? I had a feeling something was wrong when I hadn’t heard anything from you.”_

“I’ll be fine, but I’m going to need a few weeks – will that be a problem?” What a great way to start off his first truly professional relationship.

_“No, not at all. What hospital are you at?”_

“I’m at Columbia Presbyterian, but I have no idea what room. I think I’m on the Neuro unit.” He looked at Peter and he nodded. “Yeah – Neuro.”

_Are you sure you’re all right?”_

That was debatable, but for Stuart Gless’ sake, he was. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here… a few days, maybe.”

_“Are you up for a visit?”_

He should have figured this was coming, and actually, it would be nice to see another friendly face. “Yeah – but don’t be too shocked when you see me, I’m kind of banged up.”

 _“Don’t worry about that – just get better. We’ll be by later this afternoon.”_ Stuart disconnected before Neal could say anything else. 

_We?_ He started at the phone in bemusement. Stuart was going to bring his daughter Lindsey – of course.

“Everything okay?”

Neal let out a small huff of laughter. “I guess this means I’m committed. A job, salary, taxes.”

“Welcome to the real world, Mr. Caffrey.” Peter laughed too. “How long have you been in touch with Stuart Gless?”

“On and off, for about four years.”

Peter seemed taken aback. “That long?”

“He came to prison to see me after Kate was killed. I really wasn’t interested in talking to him at the time. But he was persistent.”

“I’m sure he was very grateful for your help rescuing Lindsey.” 

“He was.” Neal remembered the first time he had dinner with Stuart – at The Four Seasons. “I could have taken him for a ride. He would have given me anything.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No – it didn’t feel right to capitalize on his gratitude.”

Peter looked at him and smiled. “You are a good man, Neal.”

He flushed. “Sometimes.”

“Most of the time.”

“I wanted to stay, you know.” Neal changed the subject. He needed to tell Peter this.

“What?” 

“I had told Moz I wasn’t going to go with him.” The memory of that final conversation still hurt.

“You never told me that.”

Neal couldn’t bring himself to look at Peter.

“Because I never gave you the chance.”

“Does it matter anymore?” 

“Yes – it does. It should. And I should have listened to you. But I didn’t.”

“Look, Peter – I didn’t tell you to make you upset.” 

Peter seemed about to say something when the aide came into the room, oblivious to the tension between them. “Mr. Caffrey, how would you like a bath?”

* * *

_Kramer had been right about one thing – Neal had wanted to stay. He hadn’t been planning on running with the treasure._ Peter was shaken to the core. For three years he resisted thinking about that, for three years he told himself that his mentor had been mistaken, that Neal had just been biding his time. Knowing that now made everything so much worse.

He knew it would look like he was running away, but he had to ask. “Neal – would you mind if I took off for a little while. I’d like to get a few hours sleep. I know El will be here around noon.”

The smile Neal gave him was a little heartbreaking. “Peter – you’ve been here practically around the clock since I was admitted. I’ll be fine if I’m alone for a few hours. The sponge bath will probably finish me off until El arrives. And Stuart and Lindsey will be here later. Go home, go get some sleep. Maybe you should think about going into the office – Diana and Clinton may stage a coup if you’re not careful.”

Peter didn’t care for the forced cheerfulness in Neal’s voice. “Hmm – maybe I should stay. I’ll just go grab a cup of coffee – I’ll be back in a few.” He didn’t want Neal to think he was running away. Even though he was.

“You don’t have to babysit me, Peter. I’m not going to run – not that that’s your concern anymore.” There was a slight smile on Neal’s lips – it cut the sting of his words.

“You need a minder. You need someone to watch out for you.”

“Are you volunteering?”

“Maybe.” _But haven’t we been there, done that already?_

The aide stepped around him, she was carrying a basin of water and had several towels draped over her shoulder.

“Peter, go. Get some rest, come back when you can.”

“Okay – I’ll be back tonight.” _After I’ve sorted all of this out in my head._

He turned to the aide – the same one who had taken care of him the first night after Neal’s surgery. Her name tag – the one he was too bleary-eyed that night to read said ‘Becky’. “Don't let him charm you into something he shouldn’t be doing. His smile has been registered with Department of Defense as a lethal weapon.”

“Oh, no worries about that – after wiping his ass and changing his cath, I’m sort of immune to his charms.” But she did smile at Neal and give him a wink.

“See you later. And behave.” Peter gave Neal ‘the look’ before taking off. 

The mid-morning traffic was, quite thankfully, light and he was home within an hour. Cleo was a bad puppy and piddled in excitement when he came in – but at least she hit the pad. Satch look up in weary disgust.

The house smelled of the promised chicken soup and his stomach rumbled. For the first time in over a week, he was hungry – starving in fact. He cleaned up Cleo’s little mess, washed up and wondered, like Neal, if there were noodles or dumplings to go with the soup.

“Hey, hon.” El came downstairs. “You want a bowl?” 

“I’d kill for one. At least one.” He kissed her and breathed deeply. “Mmmm, you smell good.”

“Eau de sautéed onions and carrots.” 

He sniffed her again. Yes – and it was delicious.

“Sit – I’ll get it for you.”

Peter was about to argue but the look in his wife’s eyes brooked no disobedience. There were no dumplings, no noodles, but there were vegetables and plenty of shredded chicken. And fresh bread. Peter came up for air after the second bowl and the third slice of bread, and didn’t bother to restrain a slight belch. 

El was looking at him, a hand over her mouth to hide a smile. “Neal’s doing better?”

“Much. They have him on his feet, walking and the respiratory therapist is extremely pleased with his progress.” He wiped his mouth. “And he met with the detectives on his case. He was able to identify the suspect they have in custody, and his memories of the attack are beginning to come back.

“That is a good thing, really.”

“It is – I hope.” He wasn’t sure, given Neal’s earlier trauma in prison.

El had a pensive expression on her face. “I used to long to forget. I wanted oblivion so badly. To pretend it never happened. That my safely was never violated.” She shook her head. “But that didn’t work either. I spent nearly three years hiding from my own shadow.”

It startled Peter that Elizabeth and Neal both used the word “oblivion.” And it hurt that both Neal and Elizabeth had this in common.

He put the dishes in the sink and went over to the couch, practically collapsing from exhaustion. El joined him.

“What else happened today?”

“Neal has a real job – here in New York. Remember the kidnapping case he was dragged into, his first year with the Bureau?”

“Of course – the daughter of the owner of the company whose bonds Neal had forged.”

“Well, apparently Neal and the girl’s father have kept in touch. He offered Neal a position as part of his security team.” Peter shook his head in amused exasperation. “Only Neal Caffrey...”

“Actually, hon – it makes a lot of sense. Don’t big corporations hire hackers who have exposed vulnerabilities? Seems like a perfect match. Especially since Neal did become a model citizen, in a way.”

“How did you know that?” Peter had refused to even mention Neal’s name after Elizabeth was rescued.

“I had lunch with Diana once or twice. She may have mentioned it.” El smiled gently at him. “I wasn’t keeping secrets – but I didn’t want to upset you or make things worse.”

“Hmmm. You continue to amaze me.”

“But there’s something else, Peter. You’ve got that look on your face.”

“What look?” He tried to blank his expression, but wondered if he looked like he was having a seizure. 

“That look – the one where you’re just sort of confounded by something, usually something about Neal.”

“Neal told me he was going to stay – that he had told Moz that he didn’t want to leave, he didn’t want the treasure.”

Elizabeth didn’t say anything, but she didn’t seem at all surprised.

“El?”

She gave him a wry smile. “I kind of thought so.”

“Kramer had told me that Neal was where he wanted to be – that he wanted to stay. I didn’t believe him.” The memory of his anger shamed him.

“Peter, you have to move on from the past. You’ve found your way back to each other. It’s terrible beyond measure that it happened like this, but you have. And I can promise you that time is a powerful healer.”

He couldn’t deny that, he was looking at living proof. 

“Neal’s not going anywhere. He’s going to need us. He’s going to need you. He needs you now. He needs your friendship, your constancy. He needs you to be Peter Burke. He needs you to help him heal – .”

“I can be that. I can do that.”

“He also needs to know that you love him and accept him for who he is. With all of his limitations and possibilities.”

“Love, El?” The word was sweet on his tongue, and almost unbearably bitter. 

“If there are ever two people who love each other, it’s the two of you. And don’t give me _that_ look, Peter Burke. You know what I mean. If you didn’t love Neal, you never would have hated him with such a passion. If he didn’t love you, he wouldn’t have felt so such guilt.”

* * *

Becky washed him, head to toe, patted him dry, applied fresh bandages to his surgical incisions and put a fresh hospital gown on him. “All clean and sweet smelling now. How about sitting up for a while?”

That sounded good – he was getting bored with lying in bed. That must mean he was feeling better. And then he had to laugh – just going to the bathroom wore him out.

She tucked a warm blanket around his legs and chattered on about Christmas. He wondered where he’d be. The surgeons mentioned rehab, which both terrified him and made sense. He wasn’t strong enough to live on his own right how.

Neal leaned back and let the sounds of the hospital wash over him. He was still attached to monitors and IVs, and there were the ever present pings and beeps from the machines. Becky was humming as she remade his bed. 

“You’re doing okay? Is your pain manageable? Is there anything you want? Are you hungry?”

He was, a little, but not for what passed as food in this hospital. Peter had promised a visit from Elizabeth and some chicken soup. El – she was coming to visit him. What right did he have for such a miracle? She was there when he woke, had stayed with him when he could barely say his own name. After everything – what right did he have to that?

Neal closed his eyes, tried to sleep and dozed for a while. But it was a restless, uncomfortable sleep. His hand was aching and his side, where they had cut him opened was sore and itchy. And memories of the attack were threatening to overwhelm him. Tears prickled behind his eyelids, but they didn’t fall.

The door opened. He opened his eyes and like a miracle, Elizabeth was there.

“Hiya.”

“Hey.”

He felt painfully awkward. The two of them hadn’t talked much. Peter had been the steady presence for the past four days and if he still couldn’t quite reconcile the guilt he felt about his role in the theft of the Nazi treasure and Peter’s unflagging protectiveness, he had come to accept it for the gift it was.

But Elizabeth was a different story altogether. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” 

“You don’t want to know.” He didn’t try for the full Caffrey, but he was able to manage something close to his usual high wattage smile. Pity Elizabeth didn’t buy it; at least she had the grace not to say anything.

“Peter told me you’re on real food now.” 

“If you can call what they serve here “real.” He found the controls for the chair and moved it to the upright position. “Peter did mention something about chicken soup.”

“Yes – my mother’s recipe. Jewish penicillin.” 

Neal took comfort in Elizabeth’s ordinary actions, watching her set out napkins, some crackers. El put a thermos with a cup on the table; he actually started to salivate as she opened the container and the aroma wafted out along with the steam.

“That smells … delicious.” He wrapped his hands – or rather his right hand, around the cup and took a sip. It tasted like heaven, like the home he had always longed for.

He had to put the cup down. He was crying – he couldn’t believe he was crying over a cup of chicken soup. The tears became sobs, uncontrollable, bone shaking.

“I don’t know … what is wrong … with me.” He struggled, unsuccessfully, to get control of himself, but he couldn’t stop.

Elizabeth wrapped her arms around him, held him close. “It’s all right, just let it go, let it go.” She rocked him, careful of all his wounds. “I know, baby. I know.”

Neal didn’t know how long he clung to her, broken and unmanned, but the tears stopped and he managed, finally, to get some control over his emotions. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what just happened.” He let go of her and scrubbed at his face, wincing as he pulled against the stitches.

She let go, and he sat up. El reached out and wiped away his tears. “Don’t ever apologize for what you’re feeling. Ever.”

“I thought I was doing okay.” He picked up the cup of soup – it was still warm, still delicious.

“Peter said you had a busy morning.”

He nodded. “They had me up at dawn. I was walking – once up and down the hall. Breathing exercises. A visit from the surgeon.”

“And the police.”

“Yeah – that too.” Neal didn’t feel like saying anything more about that. Peter could fill her in.

El must have understood. “More soup?” She held out the thermos, he nodded, and she filled the cup again. This time, when he drank, he didn’t fall apart.

After he finished, she got him a warm, wet washcloth and then a towel. “You’re very good to me.”

“You make it sound like you don’t deserve it.”

He looked at her. “After everything, after what Keller did to you, how can you say that?”

El didn’t say anything for a few moments, as if she were carefully choosing her words. “It wasn’t your fault – your decisions may have precipitated other’s actions, but Matthew Keller was the man who kidnapped me from my home.”

“Because I –”

“No, Neal. No. I won’t accept that. I’ve spent years working through this and you won’t make me blame you. I won’t have it. Okay?”

Neal let himself smile – Elizabeth Burke was not a woman to be crossed. “Okay.”

She grinned at him. “And I understand you have a new job.”

He was grateful for the change of subject. “Yeah – I’m going to get to pay taxes. A 401k. Health insurance. The whole thing. Maybe a house and a dog and a white picket fence someday.”

“All because you once did the right thing.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Peter told me that you’re going to be working for the man whose daughter you rescued.”

“Also the man whose company’s bonds I forged.”

“I remember this case – your anklet was cut. You could have easily run, let the girl die. You almost got yourself killed.”

“El – don’t make me out to be a hero.”

“You are one.”

“I’m also the man who –“

She put a finger over his lips. “Don’t.”

“Okay, okay.” Neal was willing to stop this vicious circle of guilt and blame.

“I’ve brought you something you might enjoy.” She reached down and handed him a bag from Nordstrom’s.

Neal didn’t bother with even a token objection as he pulled out a gray silk robe and a set of black silk pajamas. “El…” 

She grinned like a particularly clever version of the Cheshire Cat. “These are very special “invalid” pajamas. Take a look at the top.”

Neal did – and was surprised to see that the shoulders and short sleeves were made like more conventional hospital gowns, to allow for leads and IV tubing.

“When Peter’s father was sick, he hated being in the standard issue hospital gowns and I found ones like these for him. Not silk, of course.”

“Elizabeth Burke…I don’t know what to say.”

“Um, maybe thank you?”

He was on the verge of tears again and took a deep breath to steady himself. He supposed that he’d be walking the knife-edge of emotional chaos for a long time. “Thank you.”

“Do you want to change?”

“Oh, yes.” 

El left and fetched an aide to assist him. He stood there, on very shaky legs but feeling like more like a human being and less like a piece of meat for the first time since he woke up from the coma.

“You decent?” El called out.

“Yes.” He settled back down into his chair, robe loosely belted.

“Good, because you have visitors.” She pulled the curtain opened, revealing Stuart and Lindsey Gless.

Stuart did a good job of keeping a shocked expression off of his face, but Lindsey couldn’t.

“Neal!” 

She looked like she was about to throw herself onto him, but her father grabbed the back of her sweater. “Careful – Neal’s just had surgery.”

She approached him more sedately, but blurted out, “You look terrible.” She bit her lip. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Another week or so, and I’ll be back on my feet.” 

Lindsey plopped down on the bed. “Dad said you were mugged.”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you beat him up? Knock him out cold?” 

Over the years, Lindsey Gless had built him up into something like a superhero. It was sort of sweet. “He jumped me from behind – but I did get a punch in.” He lifted his left hand. “The problem was I think his jaw was made of iron.”

They all laughed, and that seemed to take the edge off of Lindsey’s anxiety. Neal asked her about school, deftly switching the topic of conversation to Lindsey’s thesis for her senior year as a lit major at Columbia.

“I’m doing an analysis of the imagery in D.H. Lawrence’s poetry – and don’t you dare start quoting “Whales Weep Not.” She shook a finger at him.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He caught Stuart’s eye and winked. The stitches still hurt; he had to stop doing that.

“Can I sign your cast, Neal?”

“Sure – do you have a pen?”

Lindsey pulled a Sharpie out of her bag. “Never go anywhere without it, and my pepper spray, and the GPS tracker.” She added with a sigh. 

Neal held out his cast, resting it on the chair arm. It ached.

“Don’t look.” Lindsey uncapped her pen, thought for a moment and started to write, and write, and write. “Okay, finished. You can look now.”

Her script was surprisingly elegant, the words small and evenly formed.

  
_I will go out to the night, as a man goes down to the shore_  
To draw his net through the surf's thin line, at the dawn before  
The sun warms the sea, little, lonely and sad, sifting the sobbing tide.  
I will sift the surf that edges the night, with my net, the four  
Strands of my eyes and my lips and my hands and my feet, sifting the store  
Of flotsam until my soul is tired or satisfied.  


“Linds…”

She bit her lip. “Too much?”

“No – it’s beautiful.”

“I didn’t write that, silly. It’s from Lawrence’s poem, _Restlessness_. It’s part of my thesis. I thought it suited you. Of course, there are more stanzas.”

He had to smile. “Thank you.”

They all descended into an awkward silence, but Elizabeth came to the rescue. “I bet your dad and Neal need to talk. Want to come with me and see if we can hunt down some decent coffee?”

They left and Neal tried to reassure Stuart. “It’s really not as bad as it looks.”

“No – I suspect it’s even worse, Neal.”

“I should be back on my feet in a week or two.”

“Don’t make me start doubting your intelligence. You’re in a neurosurgical ward – I don’t need a medical degree to know what that means.”

“I’ll be fine – there was no long term damage.” He didn’t quite know what else to say.

Stuart shook his head. “Neal – I’m worried about you. You have a job – whenever you can start. I’ve been trying to bring you on board for a year – I can wait another few months.”

“Thank you.” Neal winced, he’d been saying that a lot.

“Is there anything you need?”

“No – Peter and Elizabeth are taking good care of me.” That was true now. Whether they would continue after he was discharged was something he’d worry about later, and that was something Stuart didn’t need to know. Neal had a feeling that if he said something, he’d end up doing his recuperation in the Glesses’ Gramercy Park mansion.

“If I have you sign your employment contracts now – I can put you on the company’s health insurance, you can start accruing benefits.”

“Stuart –”

He held up a hand, forestalling any arguments. “It is the very least I can do.” He turned his head to sound of Lindsey and Elizabeth’s laughter drifted down from the hall. “I owe you everything, Neal. Everything.”

Damn it if he wasn’t going to start crying again. “Okay. Send the papers over, I’ll sign them.”

Stuart shook his head and unconsciously echoed Peter’s words from this morning. “You need a minder, Neal – have your lawyer look at them first. Negotiate. Get yourself the best deal possible. Then sign.”

"Okay, okay." Neal agreed, if just to stop the tide of embarrassing emotion.

“You done with the grownup stuff yet?” Lindsey popped back into the room, followed by Elizabeth.

Neal smiled. “Your dad’s looking out for me.” 

Lindsey tucked herself under her father’s arm. “Yeah – he’s good at that.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, until Neal felt himself fading again. Stuart extracted a promise from Elizabeth to make sure Neal took his recovery seriously, and if Neal needed anything, she was to get in contact with him on his private line. As good as it was to see them, he was grateful when they left. 

“Do you want to sleep?” As El ran her fingers against his cheek, he yawned. 

“No – it seems that all I’m doing is sleeping.”

“Well, you’re healing and sleep is good.

“Mmmm. I guess I don’t feel like it. Like having you here. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve miss you too – and I’m sorry that I let the estrangement go on so long.”

Neal looked at her, “I know you had a hard time afterwards. I didn’t think you were ready to see me.”

“But maybe if I did, it wouldn’t have been so bad.” El replied. 

“Or maybe it would have been worse.” Neal sighed and yawned again.

“You sure you don’t want to sleep?”

“No, no. I’m sure.”

“Feel like talking?”

He opened his eyes and gave El a sharp look. “Sure – about what?” He wondered if he should be worried.

She smoothed the lock of hair off his forehead. “About that little bombshell you dropped on Peter this morning.”

“What bombshell.” Then it hit him “Oh.” 

“Yeah, oh.”

“I just wish I had the chance to tell him before – before everything had gotten so screwed up. I’ve always wondered if it would have made a difference.”

El looked a little sad. “I think he always wanted to believe that you weren’t going to run, but he was afraid to.”

“I was so angry – when he accused me of blowing up the warehouse, of stealing the treasure – after we both just risked out lives. But later – as much as Moz pushed, I always had an excuse not to go. I didn’t want to admit to myself that I wanted to stay. It wasn’t until he cut me out – until he started treating me like nothing more than any other suspect did it really hit home how much I lost. How much I wanted that back, how much I needed it.”

“How much you needed Peter.”

He swallowed, hard. “Yeah – how much I needed him. Needed his trust, his respect.”

“You weren’t the only one, Neal.”

“The only one, what?”

“The only one who was afraid to lose something.”

“I know – I nearly cost Peter everything.” He took a deep breath. “I nearly cost him you.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Neal sighed. “His career – he risked everything to take me on, to give me something better. To help me.”

“That’s true, but that’s not really what I mean.”

He looked up at Elizabeth, there was something she was trying to tell him that he couldn’t figure out. “Let’s pretend I just had brain surgery and the shit kicked out of me and I’m not firing on all cylinders. Oh, wait –.” 

Elizabeth sighed. “Neal, think.”

He did. “El…”

“He was terrified to lose you too – you meant the world to him.”

“And I screwed it up. I destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me. You said that to me, once – that Peter was the best thing that ever happened to me. You were right.”

“He still cares for you – you didn’t see him that first night in the hospital. He was wrecked. He was terrified you were going to die. It was like someone had ripped his heart out.”

“I don’t deserve that – I don’t have the right to that.” The was a painful hitch in his breath.

“You can keep going around in circles – you can chase your tail until the end of time. Or you can accept your mistakes and keep moving forward.”

“I know – I know, but deep down, I keep feeling that the rug is going to get pulled out from under me again. I’m going to mess up and it will hurt even worse.”

“What do you want me to say, Neal? That Peter was right to cut you out? That he should never have trusted you in the first place? That you got everything you deserved?”

Her words were like daggers. “Isn’t it the truth, though?”

“Oh, sweetie – no. Not at all.” 

Neal wished he could believe her, that he could move forward. “When you were a little girl, did you ever tell yourself stories to help you fall asleep, or make something bad go away?”

“Of course I did. I think all children do that.”

“Not only children, El.”

“You’ve always struck me as someone who has a rich fantasy life.”

“After everything went to pieces, it was like something died. Like I had killed something. I couldn’t sleep – I’d close my eyes and see you, so terrified. And Peter – when he came home that night, lost and desperate. And after – when Peter cut me off, I had this dream – this little fantasy. It became my refuge.”

“Can you share it now. Can you tell me?”

He didn’t know if he wanted to tell her. “It’s silly, really.”

“I promise not to laugh.” She took his hand, the contact chased some of the coldness away.

“You won’t tell Peter, will you?”

“I promise I won’t. Not unless you tell me it’s okay.”

Elizabeth’s word was as good as gold, he knew he could trust her.

“It starts out simple – a once upon a future time. I’ve left the Bureau and gone out on my own.”

“Doing what? Or does that matter?”

“It does.” Neal blushed. “I’ve gone legit, art-wise, and I’m good enough that I’m having a one-man gallery show. Not as ‘Neal Caffrey’ though.”

“Why not?”

“Too much sensation attached to the name.” 

“You talk as if it’s not your own.” 

He gave El a pointed look, not even bothering to raise an eyebrow.

“Okay, so what name were you using?”

“Simon Carter, but the actual name isn’t important. It’s just a name I use to sign my work.”

“What happens?”

“You’re hired. I mean, Burke Premier Events is hired to do the opening night at the gallery. Or maybe it’s at the Diarmitt and you’re consulting. But what’s important is that you don’t know it’s my show and I am careful that we don’t actually meet until the night of the opening. I know that you’ve been at the gallery. I’ve seen you there, but I don’t want you to know it’s me. I don’t want to see you turn your back on me.”

“Oh, sweetie… I never would have done that. Never.”

He ignored her comment. “But on opening night, I can’t avoid you. And Peter’s there. And I am terrified that you’ll look right through me, or that Peter will just leave. And I’m standing there, so terrified and all I want to do is hide. But I can’t – this is my show and I have to be there, no matter what.” 

El scrubbed at her nose with the back of her hand.

“But you don’t. You see me and smile. You poke Peter, who is bored out of his mind and he turns and when he sees me, it’s like the sun is rising after an endless, empty night.”

“And then?”

Neal bit his lip, now he was beyond embarrassed. “It’s ridiculous, but it’s the perfect happily-ever-after I could imagine. The both of you walk over to me, you hug me and tell me how much you’ve missed me. And Peter – he’s a little awkward at first and then he wraps his arms around me and says …” Neal pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping not to embarrass himself again, hoping to stop the tears. He didn’t want to complete that sentence.

“Neal, what do I say?” A gruff voice asked.

He looked up – Peter was standing in the doorway. Neal felt a flush start at his toes and race up and over his hairline. Had he been listening the whole time?

“What do I say?” 

Neal didn’t know if he could continue. It was so silly, so stupid.

The pause was unbearable. “Please, Neal. Tell me what I say.” 

But Peter was begging – something he never did. And it broke the last barrier. Neal lifted his chin – he didn’t know where he found this bravery.

“You tell me that you’ve missed me, that you’ve forgiven me and ...”

“And what.”

“And you need me.” He wanted to sink into the mattress, through the floor, to disappear. Why couldn’t he have just left well enough alone?

* * *

Neal’s words hung in the air. 

“That’s a beautiful dream, Neal.” He stepped into the room, feeling like Caesar crossing the Rubicon. There was no going back.

“Yeah, a dream. A fantasy.” Neal looked away, at anywhere but him. “It’s stupid – I’m a grown man.”

“No, it’s not stupid. We all have those dreams.” He said more to himself than to Neal. “We all need to hold onto something to get through the night.”

“I never wanted anyone to get hurt.” Peter ached at the desperation in Neal’s voice. “I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay. I wanted the life you were giving me. I want to go back.” He whispered, “Why can’t we go back?” 

Neal pulled his hand away from Elizabeth’s and turned on his side, but not before Peter could see the tears flow down his cheeks.

He sat down on the bed, resting a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “You don’t know how much I’ve wished that too – to undo all my own mistakes. To have given you the trust you needed, the respect you deserved. I think, _what if?_ , and all I see is a future that never happened. We can’t go back. I can’t undo the past. I can’t give you back the lost time, I can’t make this pain go away.”

There were tears in his eyes too, they clogged his throat, hurt his head. “I can’t change the past, but I can give you your dream.”

Neal turned back to him, his eyes huge, uncertain. “Peter…”

He brushed his hand across Neal’s face, gently tracing the vivid bruises that stained his face, lingering on the cut across his eyebrow, on the other one on his cheekbone, the butterfly bandage near his hairline.

“I need you. I need my friend back. I need us to be us again – can we?”

Neal didn’t answer, his eyes flicked over to Elizabeth. Peter felt her rest her head on his shoulder, he felt her smile deep in his bones. 

“Neal?” 

Neal didn’t say anything at first, he just reached out and Peter took his hand, El put hers on top, anchoring the three of them to a promise.

“Don’t ever let me go. Please.” Peter's heart broke at the plaintive cry.

“No, Neal. Never again.” _Never again._

__

FIN


End file.
